


silver lining, strike me down

by renaissance



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Class Differences, Costume Parties & Masquerades, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28286955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/pseuds/renaissance
Summary: Tread lightly, Horatio, he tells himself,and maybe you’ll make it to the end of the night.
Relationships: Hamlet/Horatio (Hamlet)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 94
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	silver lining, strike me down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boywonder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boywonder/gifts).



> This is a treat fic for boywonder! I saw that yours was the only Hamlet prompt in the collection, which caught my attention, and then I read your letter and I knew I had to write something. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> (Title from "Ricochet" by Lydia Ainsworth. Many thanks to aroceu for beta-reading!)

_Tread lightly, Horatio_ , he tells himself, _and maybe you’ll make it to the end of the night_.

He keeps to one side of the steps up to the palace, ducking past a waiter balancing champagne flutes on a tray, a giggling couple running hand-in-hand from the open doors. The trees and topiary are strung with lanterns and there’s a string quartet at the top of the staircase. Under a night sky, a gibbous moon, the old stone glows. It’s beautiful.

Horatio is wearing a suit he rented from a shop in the city.

As he slips through the crowd in the entrance hall, he adjusts his mask. The mask, at least, makes something of a difference: though it’s borrowed from his friend at the theatre, it’s a good-looking fabrication, sturdy papier-mâché and high-quality rhinestones. The wings of the mask extend out past his face, and a fan of feathers emerges from behind each side. Not a trace of hot glue gun residue in sight. And, most importantly, the mask is big enough that it passes the Clark Kent’s Glasses test: he triple-checked, sending selfies to his friends, asking, “Do you recognise me in this?”

The whole thing is so ridiculous. Horatio hadn’t even known that people still held masked balls, not in this day and age. But then, he’s never been friendly with people like this before. The kind of people who spend their summers in a palace by the sea. The kind of palace by the sea that has a grand ballroom, a real crystal chandelier hanging overhead, and _another_ string quartet, stationed at the far end of the space.

He spots Hamlet at the foot of the quartet’s makeshift stage. Even behind his extravagant mask—black lacquer and feathers and rubies pendant beneath the eye-holes like macabre tears—Hamlet could never be anyone but himself.

Horatio raises one hand in a small wave. Hamlet leaps to action and sticks both his hands in the air: “Horatio!”

Well. So much for the fucking mask.

Hamlet weaves through the partygoers, light on his feet, and skids to a stop in front of Horatio. “Spectacular!” he says. “You made it.”

“Of course I made it,” Horatio says. He reaches up and awkwardly adjusts his mask. “You invited me, so.”

“I did,” Hamlet concedes, shrugging. “But you know, this is _so_ not your scene.”

A waiter passes them by; Hamlet takes a wine glass without looking.

Horatio goes still. “What do you mean by that?”

“Parties. Dress-up. Classical music.” Hamlet waves his free hand. “I know you’d much rather be at one of your—what is it, spank poetry nights?”

“ _Slam_ poetry.”

“Whatever. You know, back room of a bookshop sort of events. Not that I don’t love when you take me to those! God knows, any excuse to get away from my _family_. Just that this isn’t your speed. Nor is it mine, really. I mean, dressing up, yes. The rest of it… well, anyway, I’m terribly glad you came.”

That’s the problem with Hamlet: for every artless comment about _spank poetry_ —god, what goes on in that man’s head?—there’s a guileless smile and a hand on Horatio’s wrist. A private reminder that Hamlet really is glad he’s here. Needs him, almost.

“I’m glad to be here,” Horatio says. He glances out of the corner of his eye at a pair of women in elaborate ballgowns, fabric overflowing like water from a fountain. Their masks are so bright and jewelled that they catch the light, scattering disco ball dots on everyone around them. “It’s—one hell of a party.”

Hamlet tilts his head, shrugging. “I’ve been to better. It’s uninspired to have two string quartets, don’t you think? At least splash out on a chamber orchestra.”

 _Splash out_.

“I need a drink,” Horatio says. “Do you want a drink?”

In response, Hamlet holds out his wine glass. “Finish it.”

“Oh,” Horatio says. “Yeah.”

That’s the other problem: sometimes Hamlet makes Horatio so stupid he forgets to pay attention to what’s going on around him. He forgets things that have just happened, like Hamlet’s wine, which he was very much already drinking when Horatio asked.

When Horatio takes the glass, their fingers brush. He wishes he could forget that detail, too.

Horatio drinks the rest of the wine down in two big gulps—Hamlet’s side-eye is easy to ignore, mostly hidden behind his mask. When he’s finished, Horatio turns the glass around in his hands, rolling the stem between his thumb and index finger. Hamlet takes his arm and leads him across the ballroom; Horatio’s barely paying attention, one eye on the crowd to scan for a waiter with a tray of empty glasses. But with Hamlet babbling about god knows what, and everything else swirling around them, there’s so much noise and colour and movement that it becomes overwhelming, some kind of terrible fragmentary daydream.

Still—Horatio can be present when he needs to. Halfway to the other side of the room, Hamlet freezes, and yanks Horatio in the other direction. In a heartbeat, Horatio’s attention is all his.

“What’s up?”

“Ugh.” Hamlet ducks his head. “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. God spare me.”

Sometimes Horatio is polite to Hamlet, as his “station” befits, or what the fuck ever. But most of the time, Hamlet responds best to bluntness, so: “What’s wrong with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern?”

“Oh, _you_ haven’t seen them since Wittenberg,” Hamlet says. The word _Wittenberg_ is frosted over, the way he says it, dripping with icicles. “Look, long story short, my uncle’s on my case again. Total pain in the arse. He has those two informing on me. Every time I see them these days, it’s question after question. And _don’t_ ask how I know, because I’ve seen them talking.”

Horatio puts his hands up. “I wasn’t going to ask.”

Hamlet straightens the wine glass between Horatio’s fingers, pats him on the shoulder. “Careful,” he says. “You don’t want to break it.”

“Uh, so, we were hiding?” Horatio says. He’s pretty sure his cheeks have gone the same colour as the last drop of wine staining the bottom of the glass.

“Yes, yes.”

Hamlet cuts a path towards the edge of the crowd. A few people stop them to talk—well, they stop _Hamlet_ , in his ostentatious mask and well-tailored suit. Hamlet dutifully introduces Horatio—“My dear friend from Wittenberg!”—and the beautiful strangers smile and nod and then move onto the next question. While Hamlet talks, Horatio watches him: the way Hamlet’s demeanour changes when he’s being the person he’s expected to be, the shift in his posture, the way his smile never quite reaches his eyes.

It’s this, Horatio supposes, that gives him hope. Hamlet is so embedded in this lifestyle—he’s _from_ here, but he doesn’t belong here.

That doesn’t mean he’s never infuriating about it, though.

Once they’ve made their way out of the ballroom at last, Hamlet leads Horatio down a quiet corridor. The sounds of the masquerade swim out to meet them, and recede like the tides.

“I like it better out here,” Hamlet says. “Ugh. Maybe it’s not _my_ scene, either.”

“Not in the same way,” Horatio says.

Hamlet’s eyes go wide behind his mask; Horatio imagines his eyebrows raising. “What do you mean by that?” Hamlet asks. “You don’t like crowds either. You don’t like having to show off. That’s why we work so well, you and I—we’re so alike.”

Horatio hates how Hamlet talks like he’s trying to convince himself. Hates that he’s wrong, either way.

“In many ways, we’re alike,” Horatio says shortly, “but that’s not why it’s _not my scene_.”

Hamlet looks down at Horatio, inscrutable. “I don’t understand.”

“Everyone out there—” Horatio throws his arm back in the direction of the ballroom, and—oh god—he’s still holding the wine glass. “Do I have to put it plainly?”

“I’d appreciate it if you did,” Hamlet says.

“Hamlet,” Horatio says, “you’re all filthy fucking rich.”

For a moment, Hamlet seems lost for words. Then at last he manages, “Well, yes, I know _that_. But you know, you’re not so out of place. I make an effort for you, you know. So it doesn’t get weird.”

“You make an _effort_?” Horatio would laugh, if it didn’t make him want to tear his hair out. “You talk like it’s nothing to hire a chamber orchestra, you let your rich friends ignore me like I’m some dirt under their shoes, and you—you don’t even care enough to remember the names of the events _I_ invite you to.”

Hamlet winces. “S—slap poetry?”

Horatio thrusts out the wine glass, and, open mouthed, Hamlet takes it. “Fuck this,” Horatio says. “See you whenever you’re ready to meet me where I’m at.”

He turns, and walks. Doesn’t care where he’s going so long as it’s away from the ballroom. Behind him, he hears the sound of the wine glass clinking as it’s set down on a surface, footsteps following.

It’s Hamlet, of course. “I’m ready!” he calls. “Horatio, I’m ready!”

“Wow, good for you,” Horatio says, eyes forward. “I’m not.”

“Slam poetry,” Hamlet says. “It’s slam, isn’t it?”

Horatio just keeps walking. Hamlet talks the whole way, but he may as well be talking to himself. Horatio isn’t paying attention to a word he says; his mind is caught on how Hamlet stopped to put down the glass before coming after him. The palace is a blur of colour alongside him, walls lined with fine art and furniture propped up against them, tiled marble floors and Persian rugs.

Maybe Horatio should have been paying more attention.

The walls here are unadorned, the stone floor scuffed. Horatio comes to a stop. A moment later, Hamlet draws up beside him.

“I’m lost,” Horatio admits.

Hamlet shrugs, looks around. “Me too.”

“What do you mean? You practically grew up here!”

“Yes, but this—” Hamlet makes a face. “This is where the staff work.”

“The servants,” Horatio says. He _is_ going to make Hamlet say it.

Hamlet does not say it. “We might be near the kitchens… ?”

“Alright, fantastic,” Horatio says, “I’m going to live out the rest of my life in this labyrinth because my idiot best friend is too posh to hang out in the palace kitchens.”

For once in his life, Hamlet is quiet. He has no parry for that blow, no riposte to strike back, because he knows it’s true. Hamlet sighs; the rubies hanging from his mask bounce against his cheeks. They press on in silence.

Hamlet always paces when he’s thinking, but he can’t think while he’s walking. The difference is subtle; Horatio’s had years to get his mind around all of Hamlet’s subtleties.

“Look, I’m not mad at you,” Horatio says at last. He stops, to let Hamlet’s brain catch up. “It’s just—you’ve always been like this. Even back at Wittenberg. And I know you don’t know you’re doing it, but that makes it worse. I want to keep coming to your stupid parties, because I know you need me here, and I—” _I like that you need me_ , Horatio does not say. “I need you to try a little harder.”

“I am _trying_ ,” Hamlet snaps. “Why do you think I invite you to these things in the first place? I don’t want you to be—” He sweeps his arms out in an exaggerated gesture, and puts on a voice: “Oh, Horatio? No, he never comes to my parties. Can’t think why!”

“ _Trying_ looks a little different from where I’m standing,” Horatio says. “Maybe you could—”

He cuts off. There’s footfall in the distance, from the way they came; there’s soft conversation.

“Shit,” Hamlet says. “I can’t be seen down here.”

“You’re doing it again,” Horatio says.

Before Hamlet has a chance to realise what exactly it is he’s doing and start running his mouth about it, Horatio yanks Hamlet’s expensive mask off his face and throws it. The mask skitters along the corridor, and Horatio grabs Hamlet by the back of his head and kisses him hard.

Horatio is still mad at him. But he’s not stupid, he knows that Hamlet occupies a precarious place in his high society life. That, when Hamlet says he can’t be seen down here, he’s being melodramatic, but also he kind of isn’t. And, well—this is what Horatio does. He has Hamlet’s back.

Hamlet’s eyes are wide.

“Oh, shit,” comes a voice from further down the corridor. “I think this is Hamlet’s mask.”

“So he did go this way,” says a second person.

Horatio steps back into an alcove, crowds right up against the wall and pulls Hamlet down again. This time it’s a proper kiss, and Hamlet leans into it, hands grasping for Horatio’s shoulders and rucking up his hired jacket. Horatio wraps an arm around Hamlet’s waist, bringing him closer as he deepens the kiss. For a moment it’s just the two of them—no palace, no ball, no interlopers coming closer down the corridor. No complicated past, no uncertain future. Just this.

“Pick it up,” the second voice says. “We’ll get it back to him.”

“You pick it up,” the first voice says. There’s movement, then—“Oh! Don’t let us ruin your night, gentlemen.”

They walk on.

After ten seconds that feel like ten hours, Hamlet pulls away, breathing hard. There’s a red ridge across his nose, a pressure mark from Horatio’s mask.

“Was that—” Horatio starts.

“Rosencrantz and Guildenstern,” Hamlet whispers. “Thanks for the—you know.”

“The quick save?”

“For kissing me.” Hamlet laughs to himself, almost bashful. “I mean, I know it was only to keep me out of harm’s way, which was very nice of you, of course, but it was also a very good kiss, and if you wanted to do it again sometime—”

“Hamlet,” Horatio cuts him off. “I want a lot of things.”

He needs, too. He needs so much more. But that’s not going to happen overnight: it’ll take time, and effort, and more arguments like this. Hopefully more kissing, too. And then some.

“Uh—sorry about your mask.”

Hamlet shrugs. “I don’t care about the mask.”

“You’re harder to spot without it,” Horatio jokes. He’s sort of not joking at all. “When we go back out there, nobody’s going to bother you.”

“I don’t want to go back to the ball,” Hamlet says. “I want to get out of here. With you.”

“I’d love to,” Horatio says, “but we are very much still lost.”

Hamlet holds out a hand. “We’ll work it out somehow. Do you trust me?”

“You don’t have to ask,” Horatio says, and takes his hand.

Of course, Hamlet still has no idea where they are. This time Horatio leads the way: he doesn’t know the way around the palace kitchens any better than Hamlet does, but it doesn’t matter. Hamlet trusts him, too. Horatio follows the smell of food and gravitates away from the sound of voices.

They come at last to the cold night air. No partygoers, no music. Just a herb garden backing onto the kitchens: there are four neat planters arranged in a diamond shape, a narrow path running between each. Brown brick cobbles, low wooden walls, the freshness of the earth and the tall-growing greenery.

“I’ve never seen this place before,” Hamlet says. He bends down and plucks a sprig of thyme between his fingers. “How much have I been missing out on?”

“First lesson, Hamlet: no romanticising the ‘simple life.’”

“But it’s nice,” Hamlet whines. “Being out here, away from everything. With you.”

Horatio gives him a look, but he’s smiling; he can’t help it. “So let’s just throw our own party.”

He takes his phone out of his suit pocket, opens up Spotify, and hits play on the love song playlist he’ll never admit to curating. He crouches down and rests his phone between the sage and the rosemary; a drum beat and soft piano chords play out from the tinny speakers.

The night sky is no less perfect away from the manicured gardens. The moon is even brighter. Horatio moves to stand, but then Hamlet is kneeling beside him, one hand over his, and looking at him with wonder on his face, with devotion. Hamlet reaches up and lifts Horatio’s mask, setting it aside among the oregano.

“We can party,” Hamlet says, “or we could…”

Horatio leans in, and Hamlet meets him halfway.


End file.
